“There is one inference I think we might draw,” remarked the commissary suddenly. “Since the men insisted on M. Renauld dressing himself, it looks as though the place they were taking him to, the place where ‘the secret’ was concealed, lay some distance away.”
The magistrate nodded.
“Yes, far, and yet not too far, since he spoke of being back by morning.”
“What times does the last train leave the station of Merlinville?” asked Poirot.
“Eleven-fifty one way, and 12:17 the other, but it is more probable that they had a motor waiting.”
“Of course,” agreed Poirot, looking somewhat crestfallen.
“Indeed, that might be one way of tracing them,” continued the magistrate, brightening. “A motor containing two foreigners is quite likely to have been noticed. That is an excellent point, M. Bex.”
He smiled to himself, and then, becoming grave once more, he said to Mrs. Renauld:
“There is another question. Do you know any one of the name of ‘Duveen’?”
“Duveen?” Mrs. Renauld repeated, thoughtfully. “No, for the moment, I cannot say I do.”